For the Love of Ephemera, Victorian Fashion Torture, and I Want My Car Back

Ok, for the second bloody time now.  Why, oh, why did this damned thing zap the whole body of this post?   I am glad I don’t have to wear clothing like this.  I like the prices and I like the coverage, but I need a waist a tad bit larger than the circumference of my spine.   Corsets had to be nasty things to wear.

Now I know why these women died young.  They couldn’t breathe.

So, should I choose to design my own fashion,  to achieve the goals of comfort and coverage, and not rely on today’s dismal offerings from gay fashion designers who manage to only come up with clothes suitable for those with an exhibition fetish and the proportions of a 12 year old boy, I would have to come up with something like this ensemble:

The illustrious Steve-o has my car this week, which sucks.  He only has it because no one else had a reliable vehicle for him to drive whilst the infinitesimal intermittent miss he claims to hear in his Audi-  when a laundry list of conditions are met- is being checked out by his high-faluting buddies down in Cinci.  So I’m driving Dad’s nasty ’92 Mazda van that does, to its credit, have nice cold A/C, but I’m having my doubts about the ball joints, tie rods and that rather disturbing lifter noise.  Steve-o is the most anal dude on the planet (and I’ve seen some very anal car enthusiasts in my time) when it comes to his own car.  I just hope that he doesn’t think that because he’s using my car- for free- that it’s party time.

It’s not a Mazerati, but it does have nice cold A/C, a decent stereo and 5 on the floor.  Damn, I miss my car.

I feel sort of sorry for Dad.  He’s stuck in that nursing home rehab center, and the food is just plain frightening.  What’s worse is he’s going to get enough scary food when he goes home and Mom attempts to cook.  On the plus side he is losing weight, but it’s sort of sad to lose weight just because you can’t identify what’s on your plate and you’re afraid to eat it.  Dad wanted me to drive his van- he can’t drive at all for at least another three weeks while his sternum heals- rather than Steve-o driving it, because Steve-o has a 40 mile drive through the middle of nowhere to get to work.  I can get retrieved a little easier should Dad’s ancient Mazda decide not to start, or if the steering and/or suspension fails.  I hope it holds together, but I can always commandeer Jerry’s Tacoma, and probably should anyway.  The Tacoma has a manual transmission and Jerry hasn’t managed to blow the speakers in it.  The Mazda would have a good stereo- if not for all the speakers being blown to hell.

Better living through chemicals, especially when they’re in pastries!

God’s ATM? Some Armchair Philosophy and Theology, and Odd Cuisine

I don’t think God would mind if the driver of this PT Cruiser borrowed $1.40 from the kitty to replace the right rear taillight bulb.  Yeah, not only do I notice vanity plates and the burned out taillight, I also notice the big scrape on the left side of the rear bumper cover.  I’ve been in automotive way too long. 

Anyone who could afford to be God’s ATM could probably afford a little more high style ride than a PT Cruiser.  I would imagine if God were to drive a car He would pick something really good like a Mercedes or a BMW, not an underpowered and pathetically forgettable Chrysler offering.    On a philosophical and theological level, the thought of someone being God’s ATM- even as a sort of joke- and especially while driving a PT Cruiser- is a bit unnerving.  First of all, I really don’t think God needs money.  He created the universe, so it would stand to reason if He needed a few Ben Franklins ($100’s) and Yuppie Food Stamps ($20’s) for some reason that He could handle that without any help from a guy who really needs to check his bulbs and who also needs to stop backing up into poles.

Seriously, if God is God, then what in the flying thunder can anyone do for Him?  It smacks of arrogance and hubris for anyone to think he or she is indisposable to God.  The paradox in this is that humanity was created to serve God but apart from God we can’t even do that.   I am reminded of little kids who fashion crafts from things their parents have bought and present the crafts back to the parents as “gifts.”  Technically, you’re giving me my own stuff back, only now it’s scribbled and slobbered on.  That’s about how good of a job we humans do for God.  We take his stuff, make it crappy, and then- if we’re feeling generous- we give it a teeny tiny bit of it back to Him. 

We put our kids’ lame artwork on the fridge not because it’s good (generally it’s anything BUT fine art) but because we love our kids, and they tried.  I’d like to think that God smiles on our lame efforts too, but I really don’t want to fall under the illusion that I’m all that great or important.  I know I’m not. 

I’m certainly not even close to being God’s ATM. 



Why, oh, why do people whose ancestors come from the British Isles eat some of the most disgusting things?   Apparently canned sheep tongues are popular in Australia- complete with the cute little sheepie pictured on the can.   I’m surprised they don’t put the cute little sheepie picture on the lamb and rice dog food.  Americans generally aren’t into mutton, so maybe that’s why they picture dogs on the dog food bags.  Dogs may be pictured on the bags for the benefit of the illiterate, but I could see how a rube might think that dog food is actually made from dog meat, rather than, “This is what your dog is supposed to eat.”  Never underestimate the power and depth of stupidity and/or ignorance. 



No, Virginia, there is NO dog meat in the dog food bag, regardless of what you see in the picture.

I know some people in the US eat beef tongue (nasty enough) but think about it.  I’m sure sheep lick each other’s butts just like dogs do, but even if they didn’t,  I don’t want to eat something’s tongue. 

The Brits get the prize for the weirdest food in the Western world by far though.  Americans love potato chips, right- but in civilized flavors, such as sour cream and onion, barbeque, cheddar cheese, hot and spicy, etc.

Brits love potato chips (although they call them “crisps”) too, but the flavors are a bit more unique:

Mmmm, Cajun Squirrel and Chili Chocolate.  

Remind me if I ever travel to the UK to bring my own stash of food.